You knock back another shot, mind blurry from all the cheering and jests around you. This dive bar has been your sanctuary for years now, a weekend spot to release your inhibitions and just be.
It’s not often you get drunk. You’re not one to let your guard down. Especially around people you know — always afraid you’ll say something you intend to keep close to your chest.
But it’s the end of the year, and you’re states away from your family, and life just feels like shit right now. You were so sure Jameson would give you the newly-opened journalist spot, but he gave it to some hotshot transfer from the Bronx instead.
Not to mention the fact that your best friend and coworker Peter Parker has been on your mind almost 24/7 lately. At first, you figured you were just excited to have a friend. After being new to the city, you weren’t sure you’d be able to click with anyone, but Peter had been so sweet and open. It felt easy with him. Lately you’ve had stronger feelings for him. His whiskey brown eyes have been haunting your dreams, and you find yourself wondering how he spends his days when he isn’t at the Bugle with you.
Which is why you’re in this godforsaken bar close to midnight on a Friday, cursing your job and your heart.
Peter isn’t open to love. You know that. He’s mentioned briefly that he lost his first love and didn’t intend to try again. That was years ago, before you two were the close friends you are now, but you can’t imagine anything has changed.
You take another shot. Chase it with a lemon. How could you? How could you get close to Peter and then just fall in love? He’d hate you if he found out. It’d cross an unspoken boundary. And what if he never forgave you? What if he stopped talking to you?
The thought has you ordering another round of shots.
Your phone rings, and you almost don’t register it over the music and your loud thoughts. You answer it, plugging your exposed ear with your hand. “Hello?”
“___? It’s Pete!”
“Peter?” You realize your words have started to slur, but you don’t think it’s noticeable. You hope it’s not. “Why are you calling? It— It’s late.”
“I couldn’t slee— Wait, are you drunk?”
“No,” you say. You take another shot, and whine when the bartender tells you that he’s cutting you off. “I’m just… I’m just hanging out.”
“Are you alright? Do you need me to come get you?”
“You’re so sweet,” you ramble, knocking your forehead against the cool bar counter. It feels good against your sweaty skin. When did it get so hot? “It’s so hot here, Peter. Peter… Why are you so sweet?”
“You’re at the dive bar by your apartment, right?” Peter asks. There’s something like wind on the other line. Maybe he’s got the window down in a taxi?
“Yes,” you answer, though you don’t know why he’s asking. You’re starting to get sleepy. Damn it, it’s always like this when you drink too much. You wish you were in bed right now. “Peter?”
“I’m here.”
“You’re so sweet.”
“You already said that," he sounds amused.
“Oh.”
“I’m walking in, so I’m gonna hang up, okay?”
You hang up instead of answering, and lift your head to see the bartender sliding a glass of water your way. You smile at him (he gave you a straw) and take small sips.
Something warm falls over your bare shoulders. You turn to see Peter wrapping his jacket around you. “Peter!”
“I told you I was here,” he says, a fond smile on his face. Not that you realize it.
You blink up at him. “I’m drunk.”
“I know,” he says warmly. “Can I walk you home?”
“Okay.”
He pays the bartender and wraps a loose arm around your waist to guide you through the crowd.
Your building is on the same street as the bar, and you barely register the chill in the air, still warm from all the alcohol flowing through your veins.
Peter presses the buttons on the elevator, and leans against the wall, watching as you trace the names chaotically carved into the elevator doors. “Why are you out so late?”
“Huh?” You look at him, and he looks so soft in his green sweater. Studying him, you realize he's still wearing his pajama pants, and they're tucked into Ugg boots, of all the footwear in the world. Of course Peter Parker has a pair of Ugg boots. You look back into his eyes, and your stomach drops when you realize he’s already looking at you.
The elevator dings, and maybe that’s why you feel so queasy all of a sudden.
Peter dials the code to your apartment and holds the door open, ushering you into your small studio space.
You sit on the edge of your bed and shrug off his jacket. “I didn’t get the promotion,” you try to answer his previous question.
“I know,” Peter sounds just as disappointed as you feel, like he was rooting for you. He always is, and you know that. It only makes your feelings grow.
He digs through your drawers until he finds suitable pajamas, and keeps himself busy staring at your wall until you’re properly dressed. Though it wasn’t without struggle on your end, and probably took longer than it should’ve. “You deserved it,” he says, turning around to meet your eye.
You close your own, willing the affection to go away. The alcohol is making this harder than you thought it would. “You deserve… You…” You trip over your words.
Peter looks confused. He sits beside you on the bed, smelling like the pine notes of his cologne. Is it on his jacket? Is it on you? “I deserve..?”
“Me,” you blurt.
Peter looks shocked by the confession, so you are quick to ramble an explanation, too drunk to know when to shut up. “Not me per se but like, my love. Like, you deserve love. And I love you. I’ve known you for years and I never get tired of you and I know you don’t want to love again and I know I shouldn’t be saying any of this but it’s all I can think about, Peter.”
You can feel yourself sobering up just enough to feel shame. You groan at yourself and lean forehead, dropping your forehead on Peter’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t cool of me. Shit, Peter, it’s just the alcohol, I’ll never mention it again–”
“I love you, too,” he says, voice softer than his sweater. And when you look at him, he has a redness to his face that wasn't there before. “But I think maybe we should talk about this in the morning, when you’re sober.”
“Oh.” You move away from him, and begin to feel the cold he had tried to keep from you. He just said he loves you too, but all you hear is that he’s leaving. That he wants to talk, and oh God, talking never goes well, does it?
“___!” Peter cups your face and smiles at you. “I’m not rejecting you. But if we talk now, I’m afraid you’ll forget what we discussed come morning.”
You nod, which is hard to do while still in his grip.
Peter leans forward and presses his lips against your forehead. Your cheeks grow warm. “I’ll bring bagels, okay?”
“Okay,” you say.
And when he makes good on his promise, a bag of bagels in hand the next morning, you realize it wasn’t a dream. Peter Parker loves you, too, and nothing has ever felt better than this.